Just a Game
by Anna Molly
Summary: One of the only Ginny Weasley x Marcus Flint fics that ever have or ever will be written. Ever wanted to know how famous pro quidditch players that came out of opposite houses fall in love? Well, I say you do. xD
1. Big Damn Hero

**A/N:** If I delete this or anything randomly, I'm sorry! FF doesn't work well for me, I have to do things over and over again or they won't show. Dx

**Disclaimer**: Obviously, I don't own Harry Potter, Ginny, Marcus, or Quidditch, no matter how much I wish I did. If they were mine, I wouldn't be posting this on FF, I would be busy making it canon. Siriusly. ;P

---

"Can't you just _smell_ the excitement, Ralph? This is building up to be one amazing game!"

"You bet it is! The Falmouth Falcons haven't come this close to crushing the Holyhead Harpies in decades, and with their 'Let's win, or break some necks trying' motto, they may just end up killing each other off before the game ends!"

"Y'know, that raises some questions, doesn't it? If every player dies, how do you tell who wins?"

"Ooh, quiet Don! The Falcons have just signaled an end to their time-out! Their keeper and captain, Marcus Flint, was having a rough time with all those bludgers the Harpies set at his head, but it looks like he's conscious again. Oh, and the crowd is going wild!"

"With happiness or disappointment, Ralph?"

"Well, that depends on who you're rooting for!"

The two men were seated high above the enormous quidditch arena, in a cozy box with an amazing view of the violent game below. They were grinning like children, calling out and remarking at every move the players made, just like good commentators should have. This was great for the fans with less-than-enviable seats, but not quite as good for the players, as you can imagine. Especially not when they heard their teams or themselves talked about. It tended to catch their attention, just in the way someone saying your name would, and could leave even the most well-thought-out plays in shambles. Of course, there were plenty of exceptions. The mention of his name and the roars of the crowd worked like caffeine on Marcus Flint, who snapped out of his concussion-induced stupor enough to shoot his broom up above the stadium and perform a stunning backflip before returning to his post in front of the golden hoops. He grinned smugly at the looks on the Harpies' faces, and the thunderous applause his antics were met with.

"That was amazing, Don! I wish I could bend like that."

"I wonder if Flint can dance like a hippogriff, huh?"

A whistle shrilled from the floor of the arena and the game started off even more furiously than when it had been paused. The Harpy chasers, who were in possession of the quaffle, positioned themselves for one of the team's signature moves. As would be expected, have a team of only small, limber women opened many more pissibilities for plays no other team could pull off. It was, he imagined, the only real advantage the team had.

The three women flew into a single-file line, with the middle chaser holding the quaffle tightly under her arm. Flint readied himself, pulling one knee up under his chest. He quickly recognized this as their favorite move, and a particularly difficult barrage to stop.

The Harpies' beaters split apart on the other side of the field, each zooming for their respective bludger. Flint was momentarily distracted with deciding how likely it was he would be hit again, and almost missed seeing the line of Harpies shoot straight up into the air. As hard as he tried to focus on the incoming bombardment of quaffle, the man's attention was grabbed again by one of his own beaters, who managed to whack a bludger so hard it knocked a Harpy off her broom and was still headed straight towards him.  
The chasers were diving now, and they were almost right on top of him. This, he thought unhappily, was when it got hard. One would split to the left, one would fly right under him, and the third would zip around his head and try to score. All he had to do was decide which would do which, and stop the third without knocking himself or any of the Harpies to their deaths.

"I love this play, don't you Ralph? The Harpy chasers are all three diving at Flint in their signature 'beak-breaker' move! Any second now and they'll break formation and try to make- there they go!"

Thanks Merlin for announcers. Flint saw the red-haired chaser break first and catch the quaffle from her teammate, just in time. He zipped out of the way of one chaser, pulled up to avoid the second, and was almost in front of the-

"Ouch! Did you see that, Don? It looks like Harpy chaser Ginevra - I'm sorry, Ginny Weasley was just knocked off her broom by the same bludger that attacked her beater, Katherin Johanness. That's got to be painful!"

"Hey, why is no one on the field? Hey... Hey! Why is nobody on the field?! She's gonna break her neck if she lands like that, Ralph!"

The Harpy chasers Flint had dodged seemed not to be listening to the announcers at all. A Falcon had recaptured the quaffle and now all five were duking it out in the middle of the stadium. The conscious beater was actually wresting with both of her Falcon counterparts, and he was a little surprised they hadn't managed to throw her off her brom yet. Everyone else was preoccupied. Nobody else was looking at the falling chaser, nobody else-

"Hey, would somebody _**catch her**_?!"

"Bloody..."

Flint grunted exasperatedly and nosed his Nimbus into a steep dive before he even realized what he was doing. If she died, it would be his own team's fault. His fault for not taking initiative. And if her death meant the game was called... The man pointed his broom at and even steeper angle. He could fly faster than she could fall, but the question was more along the lines of could he-

"Got'cha," he said with a note of triumph in his voice, grabbing the chaser by the scruff of her robe and breaking her head-first plunge He didn't pull out of his own dive, though. Ten feet from the ground (a relatively safer fall), he dropped her again, and pulled up as quickly back to his post as he could. There was the chance no one noticed he was gone and hadn't tried to-

"Score! By the Holyhead Harpies! And with one chaser down, I daresay that's a feat!"

"Would you look at that, Don? The Falmouth keeper and team captain gave up a goal to save the enemy's chaser! That's got to be the least Falcon-like behavior I've seen in all my years of announcing."

"I guess your true colors don't show until a pretty little redhead is falling to her death, eh Ralph? Everybody, come on. Give it up for Marcus Flint, that was amazing! Hard to believe he played for Slytherin in his school years, eh? Amazing!"

"Try telling his teammates that if they lose, Don!"

Flint growled under his breath, shooting a deathly glare at the announcers' box. He hadn't thought anyone would have time to score. He never would've given up a goal for another team's player. He never would've given up a goal for anything! He almost wished that red-haired chaser _had_ fallen to her death. Marcus Flint, the keeper so dedicated he wouldn't give up a goal for life itself! Had a tough ring to it.

"Oh, I don't think he'll have to worry about that, Ralph! Not even four hours into the game and it looks like the Falcon seeker has just made a dive for the- HE GOT IT! HE GOT THE SNITCH, RALPH!"

"The Falmouth Falcons beat the Holyhead Harpies for the first time in 57 years! Amazing! Amazing, Don! The Falcons win!"

The crowd exploded into cheers, completely drowning out whatever the announcers were saying about Favio Bollard and his incredible seeking skills. Flint didn't care, though. He didn't need to know anything more about the game. He'd won! They'd won! His team had fucking crushed the Harpies by one hundred and thirty beautiful points! It was a landslide victory, and the best win he'd had in his entire time as captain. In all excitement, the Weasley chaser was pushed completely out of his thoughts.

Flint stood up on his broom and threw his fist in the air, and the crowd roared again. Even he, the man so opposed to showing any emotion besides anger, laughed with elation. His whole team, seeming to have forgiven their captain's rescue, flew in a line next to him and stood up on their brooms as well. While the Harpies filed off the field, most likely going to check on their newly-invalidated chaser and beater, the Falcons circled the arena twice on their brooms, yelling and applauding for themselves right along with half of the crowd. Flint laughed again, he couldn't help it. Not only was he now the big damn hero of quidditch, he was the best captain Falmouth had seen in more than half a century. The game couldn't have gone any better if he had planned it.


	2. Slimy Git

Ginny grumbled and rubbed her arm, shooting venemous glares at any reporter or medic that tried to come anywhere near her. Katherin Johanness was sitting next to her, propped unconscious against the wall of the stadium. Before any of them could go home, it was regulation to shake hands with the opposing team, who were having a damn good time showing off to their fans. Ginny spat under her breath. The Harpys' seeker was good, but Favio Bollard was amazing. She had just hoped they would be able to keep a 150 point lead until anyone got the snitch. That idea had been dashed after the first time out, though.

The Falmouth Falcons were completely brutal. Their captain had scared even the fearless Weasley when they lined up at the beginning of the game. He was ridiculously tall, at least 6'4, and looked like he could pick up a hippogriff and throw it clear across the field. Of course, most the team probably_ could_ pick up a hippogriff and throw it clear across the field. They had made that perfectly obvious after the first hundred goals. Gwenog Jones was covered head to toe in purple bruises from the shots they'd aimed too lazily and pounded her with instead of the goals. The Falcon chasers didn't even have to _have_ good aim, theyd had the quaffle enough to shoot hundreds of times. It was ridiculous and, to be honest, incredibly embarrassing.

Ginny sighed and ran her left hand through her hair, noting pitifully how she couldn't so must as lift her right arm. She didn't know the spell fix bones and the last thing she wanted was some medi-witch fussing over her, but it was starting to hurt. Still, a broken shoulder was a lot better than a broken neck. She owed that prat of a keeper her life, if nothing else. She growled again and banged her head lightly against the wall she was sitting up against. If he was going to be a big-ass hero and go save her, couldn't he at least have done it in a way she could be _thankful_?

"Slimy git," she grumbled. Her sulking, however, was suddenly interrupted by another grumpy voice.

"Come on, Ginny. Upsadaisy! They've finished prancing around like the Kenmare Kestrals, so let's get this over with and go home, eh?"

Ginny looked up remorsefully at the woman holding out a hand to help her up. Just like she'd expected, there was Gwenog Jones. The epitome of quidditch, the best captain the Holyhead Harpies had ever had. The girl suddenly felt very guilty and her face glowed a bright red. She grabbed the hand and was pulled to her feet.

"Gwen, I'm sorry. I mean, if I had been more on my game today we might have had more of lead. I didn't know-"

"S'alright, Ginny!" Gwenog sounded almost a little shocked that the other women was taking any blame at all for the loss. After nearly dying, she was feeling guilty? It really was no surprise Weasley was such a celebrated player with dedication like that.

"It wasn't your fault, Gin. We didn't stand a chance. A captain can tell when she's beat before the game even startsm you know. Come on, did you see those guys? I'm surprised we weren't all disemboweled!" She laughed and slapped Ginny on the back before swinging a leg over her Firebolt. Ginny shook her head a little and grabbed her own broomstick, following the example and hopping up. Along with four other Harpies, the two of them flew up to meet the Falcons midair.

Usually, the end-game handshake was Ginny's favorite part of the game. Usually, she used what traits the players gave off at the end to plan strategies against them in the future. Players always kept poker-faces before games, so as not to reveal any strategies, any emotional weakneses that could cost their team points. Usually, she was amazing at deducing peculiararities in players afterwards that made them so much easier to crush later on. This time was the exception. Ginny would've liked to do nothing more than go home, strangle something, and lock herself in her room.

The size of the first chaser's hands astonished her, his fingers wrapped around hers almost twice. The other two simply hand vice grips; she was almost afraid they wouldn't let go, because she knew she wouldn't have been able to break loose. The beaters waggled their eyebrows wolfishly at her, but she just shot them an extremely foul gesture. And Bollard, always the cameras' favorite, grabbed her shoulder and pulled her up next to him, then turned around to wave at some swooning reporters. Cameras flashed until Ginny's vision was swirling with colorful spots, and then he pushed her away without a glance. Despite all of that, Ginny would have gladly been polite to them all again if it meant not having to face Flint...

She gulped and smiled meekly at the last man. No- bad expression! She pulled her face into a hard glare. How dare he... do what? Save her life? Break her arm? Ginny sighed. What did you say to something like that?"

"Hey, er, thanks. Y'know. I never would've thought you'd do something like that."

"S'no problem, kid." He gave her a cocky smirk that suddenly made Ginny want to knock him off his broom.

"I'm hardly any younger than you!"

"You're younger than Potter. That makes you three years younger than me, don'it? Three years is long enough for me to call you kid."

"No, Flint, it isn't," she replied as viciously as she could. He looked somewhat taken aback, and held his hands up in mock-surrender.

"A'ight. Sorry, Weasley. Didn' mean to get to ya'."

"You... er..." Ginny blushed. What was he doing? He was the mean one, here! Not her! Falmouth Falcon Slytherin gits weren't supposed to apologize.

"Oh. Yeah, um. So... thanks. Again. Really." Ginny blushed pitifully, and Flint just laughed.

"You're pretty weird, Weasley. Make up your mind, you hate me or what?" He chuckled and licked his upper teeth. "Heh, I don' suppose it matters. Either way, remember, I got no problems with really lettin' you fall. You hear me?" He smirked, and Ginny got the peculiar sensation that he was egging her on to do something violent. "Don't think we're going easy on you next season, little-miss-Weasley."

"Well I don't want you to, Flint!" Ginny felt furious again. He was just beng nice because he thought she was weaker than him?! Never mind the fact she was, he was rubbing it in! Just because she was a girl didn't mean she wanted any pity from_ him_! If she'd had more than one hand to keep her steady on her broom, the girl would've slapped that smug grin off his face.

"A'right! Merlin, I said we wouldn't. So _fine_. I'll take that as a 'Thank you for saving my life, Flint, but I hate your guts for being polite, 'cause women hate chivalry.' I'll go tougher on you next time, if that's wha' you want!"

Ginny was caught off guard by his sudden explosion. Flint had struck her as mean, but in a taunting way. Not the "shut the hell up or I'll eat your babies" kind of mean. She couldn't help but frown despite herself. He was mad at her now, she'd heard it in the tone of that last sentence. No matter who he was, conscience was getting the best of her. What was she doing? Yelling at people for being nice? Still, he was a prat. He'd come out of Slytherin, so he had to be. She had no doubt of it. Then why didn't he just come out and act that way?!

"I actually _would_ like that, _Marcus_." He growled compulsively at the sound of his first name. "Go tough on me next time, so I can rub it in when we beat you."

Ginny smiled and wiggled her fingers at him before she flew off to rejoin Gwenog in their team tent. Flint just sat there, looking angry and dumbfounded, and Ginny almost cracked up at the ridiculous expression splashed across his face. He was buck-toothed enough when he wasn't biting his lip, but now it looked almost like he'd messed up a squirrel transfiguration charm! Strangely, the word "adorable" flickered through her mind, but she dismissed it without a second thought. There were few people in the world she disliked more than Marcus Flint at that moment.


	3. Star Crossed

**A/N 6: **Ok, I want to say something in my defense. I've tried to totally rewrite this whole chapter and beta'd it, like, six times. It's significantly less typo-ed and stuff than ther other two. But it still has a lot of grammar problems and sucky parts. I don't want to read over it again, so just live with, okay? xD

**A/N 5: **Five author notes? Bloody hell. I keep reading Marcus/Oliver fics that are amazing and then they make me feel like my MF/GW stuff is shit and then I don't want to write anymore, but then I get bored and start writing anyway and I feel obliged to post it. And now this chapter was awful and ooc-fluffy I feel like I have to write a better one to end it. Somebody review this and tell me what to do before I go crazy. xD

**A/N 4:** Holy shit. I just realized this chapter is SO out-of-character, it's not even funny. Dx I'll blame it on firewhisky and make Marcus more Slytherin-pratty/Ginny more girly in the next one...

**A/N 3: **I'm stupid, aren't I? Whatever. It took me five hours, but I got my nerve back. So I'm actually gonna finish this, then. Wotcher. x3

**A/N 2: **I'm going to put this story as complete, even though I was intending on writing another chapter or two. It's lost its luster, and I'm starting to wonder whether it's good enough to even post up here. So... yeah. Unless I grow some backbone, this story is done. ;

**A/N**: I like this chapter, because I like angst and fluff and shit like that. Be warned of the cheesy romance. xD

---

"Don't get me wrong, Miss Skeeter. The Harpies are some tough witches. It just wasn't much of a challenge for my team. As you can see, we're kind a perfect blunt to all their strengths. Wouldn't you agree, Jones?"

Flint smirked charmingly for another picture, while Gwenog appeared quite flustered by this most recent burst of attention her team had been getting from the Daily Prophet. She smiled and waved meekly at a hoard of camera men, completely ignoring what the Falmouth captain had just said. Press conferences were awful, boring interrogations that would only be used in the paper if something ugly was pulled out from under your skin, and Gwen knew this perfectly. Or at least it was what she told herself, to avoid the fact that she was camera-shy and utterly terrible at talking with the papers. The other Harpies seemed to be having a fair enough time, though, despite being in such crowded conditions with the Falcons and a mob of reporters.

"Actually, Marcus, I have to disagree with you flat-out, there. The Harpies are much more a stopper to _your_ team's strong points."

"Excuse me, but you are?" Rita asked, turning to the red-hair woman who had just shoved Flint aside to step into the camera light.

"Ginny Weasley, Miss Skeeter. A chaser for the Harpies?"

"Yes, of course! Well, I'm sure our readers would be curious to know just why you think that, Mrs. Westly."

"Ms. Weasley. And I have some valid points behind my boasting. For one, Flint's team is comprised entirely of bulky men. I'm not going to be sexist or anything, but you've got to admit, they're all enormous. Meanwhile, the Harpies don't have a single player over 5'8. This makes us more maneuverable, opening more possibilities for formations and plays. Which is another point I'd like to make. The Falmouth Falcons, hardly have three plays to their na-"

"That's well and interesting Jenny, but my sources have just informed me that you are the lucky little lady Mr. Flint gave up his save for last night. Am I right? Tell the readers just what you think about this. Any feelings you've harbored for the Falmouth captain bursting to get out? You can tell Rita anything, dear."

"-ame. And those plays are hardly-" Ginny froze mid sentence, a bit shocked by the woman's bluntness. And more than shocked by how uninterested she actually seemed in quidditch, as opposed to digging up dirt about famous players.

"It's Ginny, ma'am." She looked out of the corner of her eye, almost pleadingly, at Gwenog, who was deep in conversation with a mousy girl she recognized as the Quibbler's head of Quidditch-related stories. Desperately, she looked to Flint, who was standing behind her with a "you got yourself into this" sort of look plastered across his face.

"Well... er... I'm grateful that I'm not dead, but I assure you, I don't feel anything more than that for Flint."

Ginny gave Rita a cold stare, only now remembering what Harry had told her all those years ago after he'd been interviewed for the triwizard tournament. There was little doubt in her mind the woman would find a way to bend those words into "I love Marcus Flint with my heart and soul" and plaster it across the front of the sports section. She was so intent on trying to make the reporter combust via an angry look that Ginny jumped a little when a strong, gloved hand appeared on her shoulder, even if only to nudge her out of the way. Marcus gave the cameras a quick, heart-melting smile before he too started trying to burn Rita with his eyes.

"Skeeter, you get something straight. If I had thought anyone would've had time to score, I never would have gone for Ginny. There are doctors on the field for a reason. People have died and killed to win quidditch matches, and I live by that! I'm no closet-softy. Do you hear me? I've got no qualms against 'winning, or breaking some necks trying.' Weasley's neck included. Do you hear me?"

"Wh-..."

Ginny was suddenly rendered quite speechless. What? First her face went a flustered red, then white, then red again as she tried to swallow what Flint had just said. He would've let her die? The hairs on her neck stood up. She almost couldn't believe it! Almost.

It just then hit her full-on how damn lucky she'd been. Flint was a Slytherin and a Falmouth Falcon. Everyone who wasn't with him was against him, which meant he wanted them out of the picture. She was a star player on his rival team, definitely not an exception. She had more to fear from _him_ than from falling off her broom! She had regarded saving a life as what anyone would have done, and responded to it with a polite "thanks." But now that she realized he really wouldn't have done it...

For some reason, Ginny felt a little choked up. Her heart fluttered up in her throat. It didn't really matter what more Gwen or Flint or anyone told Skeeter, that was already enough of a story already. Without a doubt. She could just she the headlines: "Harpy Chaser Habors Undying Love for the Man Conspiring to Murder Her!" The girl could only dread what its contents would be, though. And - more than anything - how true they would prove. He wouldn't have saved her?

Ginny turned around and shoved Marcus hard out of her way. He almost flew into two camera men, who were too busy taking the shots to even notice. Rita giggled maliciously and whispered something to her Quick-Quotes quill, which started writing in a flurry. It didn't matter though. What would come would come. All Ginny wanted to do was get the hell out of there.

She came up on Gwenog and opened her mouth to announce she was leaving, but couldn't quite make a sound come out. Why was she acting like this? Sure, it was scary to think Flint might not have caught her. But why would that make her feel so much like she wanted to cry? Gwen nodded, seeming to understand her teammate was going, and Ginny shoved her way out of the crowd. She'd just apparate back to the hotel and watch some tv or something. Anything to cool her down after that disastrous interview. She stepped outside, and hurried determinedly across the paved courtyard.

"Weasley!"

Ginny jumped at the break in the silence, and the heavy hand that suddenly appeared on her shoulder again. She spun around with a bloodthirsty expression on her face.

"What the hell, Flint?! What the hell?!" was all she could manage to think of and spit out at him. What did he think he was doing, now?!

"I might ask you the same thing, Ginny! Wh-"

"_What_?!" She wanted to slap him, and probably would have if he had let go of her good arm.

"What am _I _doing? Why am_ I_ angry?! Maybe because you pretty much just told the Daily Prophet you would rather have killed me than lost that goal! What the hell was that? I realize we aren't exactly best pals and society expects you to hate me and everything, but what the _hell_?!"

He blinked at her for a second, dumbfounded.

"Weasley...!"

Ginny glared even harder, seemingly trying to gorge his eyes out with her own.

"You're kidding, right Ginny? Skeeter is a reporter. You have to lie to them! If I'd said anything softer than 'I want to kill the Weasley myself!' she would've put some huge article about us and 'forbidden Quidditch love' all over the damn front page! You seriously think that I- that anyone...?"

He looked down at her with exasperation. Ginny just stared at the man in disbelief. _What _had he said? Of course she seriously thought he wanted to hurt her! Who in their right mind wouldn't?!

Still, she began to feel increasingly more uncomfortable as the silent seconds ticked on. Flint's grip on her shoulder hadn't loosened - if anything, it had tensed up - and her arm was starting to prickle. Almost a minute passed and he didn't say anything. Ginny was too choked up to say anything either, she tried to calm down by listening to his raspy breathing (that far overpowered the sound of her own). If he could lie to the press, couldn't he lie just as easily to her? But what would be the point of that? He was getting in her head or something, trying to screw up her thoughts, throw her off game. But what reason did he have to do that? Still, what reason did he have to mean what he told her, either? She didn't trust him at all. He was the captain of her enemy team, and a git from the enemy house of her school years. Why _should_ she have trusted him?

"You're hurting me," she mumbled. Almost immediately, Flint's hand flew off her arm. A little shiver of cold ran down from her shoulder, and she could feel her fingers again.

"I didn't mean to," he said matter-of-factly.

For no reason she could imagine, Ginny's face suddenly flushed bright red. He didn't mean to_ what_?

"Reporters bend the truth. With what you said about me, you might as well have confessed our undying love to Skeeter! I had to say something, didn't I? To make up for you and set her straight?" Ginny still couldn't think of anything to say besides "What the hell?!," which had already been pretty debunked. Marcus looked confused and increasingly angry, and his face suddenly reminded her very much of a troll.

"You're supposed to lie to reporters...!" Flint grumbled, after another couple seconds of silence on her part. "You did, but not well enough. So I did enough for the both of us."

Ginny blinked at his last statement. What? She hadn't lied to Rita. At least, not knowingly. What did he think...?

"You..._ did_ lie, didn't you?"

He raised his hand, as if reaching for her arm again, but caught himself mid-act and simply flexed it into a fist a few times to try and cover up the motion. Ginny blushed even deeper.

"What the hell am I supposed to say to this?" Ginny said a bit more angrily that she had meant to.

"Maybe... _yes_?"

Before she could react, the man had a hand wrapped around each of her arms. He stared at her for what seemed like years, waiting for any response.

"I..." Ginny trailed off. What the hell? What the hell?! She took a long breath to relax the butterflies that had suddenly invaded her chest. He _really_ wanted to fuck up her mind for that next game, didn't he? Rita had asked her if there was anything more between them than gratitude, and she had said no. And now he was acting like he thought that had been a lie?  
The girl was hit with a curious idea. What if he wasn't acting? What would possess anyone to ask a question like that if they were only planning sabotage? If he was trying to get to her, he wouldn't have said that! No, that was ridiculous. There _were_ people quite capable of acting out there. Flint didn't look much like one, but hell, she didn't know him. He didn't know her, either. The only thing at all they had in common was Quidditch, and that little connection said they should've hated each other right off the bat!

"I... I did lie. I lied, too."

No! Ginny tensed up istantly. Why did she say that? She had meant to push him away from her, spit in his face, something! Just not _that_!

"Wait, Fli-!"

The girl couldn't manage to get more than two syllables out of her mouth before another closed over it. Marcus moved one of his hands to the back of her head and wrapped his other around her back, sending a small tremor up her spine. Ginny would've screamed if she could get out a sound. Strangely, the only noise she could force from her throat was a deceptively pleased-sounding "Mmm."

She grabbed the collar of Flint's jacket and tried half-heartedly to shove him off, but couldn't so much as budge the hulk of a man. What was he _doing_? Her mind was buzzing with accusations; he was trying to scare her, to mess up her team, to get Gwenog mad, to ruin her reputation. Ginny let go of his shirt with one hand and reached up to run it through his hair. She had intended on yanking him off, but her hands didn't seem to work anymore. In her head, the girl was going crazy. Had he hexed her? She hadn't seen him take out his wand, but why else would she have had the sudden urge to be acting like she was? What was she doing? The girl shivered lightly, though at her loss of self-control or Flint's hand just then dropping to the small of her back, she wasn't quite sure. Why didn't she push him off? Ginny almost ready to start crying at this newfound weakness, but the man suddenly pulled away on his own. He looked more than a little disturbed.

"Are you... Are you okay, Ginny?"

_Was_ she okay? The girl frowned. What had just happened? She had said yes without meaning to, been trapped under him when she was plenty strong enough to throw Flint off. He'd let go of her, she could easily run away. And she wanted to! ...Didn't she? Ginny couldn't quite make out how she felt. Her heart was fluttering madly and her chest was pumped with adrenaline, but she didn't think she was scared...

"Ginny?"

Her thoughts grinded to a halt at the heart-wrenching tone of his voice. He sounded honestly worried. Not the casual "how are you today" curious, the kind of actual concern that revilatilzed the question of "What the hell?!" in her mind. She craned her neck to be able to see into his face, but she couldn't see any other expression besides genuine caring. A little unnerved, Ginny turned her gaze back to his chin, which was as far up on him as her eyes went.

Was _she _alright? With a look like that, it seemed much more along the lines of was _he_ alright? More specifically, in the head? He had a lot more to risk here than she did. She was the young, adorable face of Quidditch. Fans would love the idea of her being with someone, anyone! Especially after how the press had swarmed over her and Harry breaking up those years ago. But Marcus's situation was the exact opposite - he had to be cold, vicious, ruthless. He was the captain of the Falmouth Falcons, for crying out loud! It would be bad enough for their reputation that he hadn't let her _die_. But this...

She looked back up at him sadly, but was shocked to see the same expression staring back. Under any other circumstances, the girl probably would have cracked up. Here was a huge, burly man that should have scared her half to hell looking completely pitiful. But at that moment, she felt a sharp pang of... guilt? Something panged in her guts, whatever it was.

"I'm just dandy," Ginny whispered. His grip on her relaxed a little, and she shivered.

"Ginny, I didn't think you... If you want me to stop, I... I mean, I would never..." His voice trailed off, seeming to the girl just as incapable of thinking what to say as hers was. He'd offered to stop. To let her go, to leave and not come back. She should have kicked him for not doing it sooner, but couldn't quite bring herself to. Ginny searched her mind frantically for an explanation, and strangely, the word "adorable" flicked across her thoughts again. No, why would she think that? Flint was far from adorable. He had buck teeth, pasty skin, a big, flat nose. For Merlin's sake, a quater of his genetic code was troll! But...

The girl didn't notice she'd been holding her breath until her knees suddenly wobbled and gave a little way. She let out a small squeak of fear, but the hands on her neck and waist kept her from falling any further than into Flint's chest. His ears flushed red and he tried to help her off, but Ginny realized (with a bit of shock) that she felt much better pressed up against the man than she had in a long time. She grabbed his elbow, and he tensed up noticeably. Ginny decided, though she still felt a little dazed, that she wanted exactly what she had spent the better part of the last two days trying to push away. She wanted it a lot.

"What the hell?!" flashed through the man's mind several times when, seemingly out of nowhere, she grabbed the back of his head with her good hand and pulled him down the extra eight inches, so as to reach up and kiss him fiercely. Had his mouth been free, Ginny was sure he would have gasped loudly before he fell into a return display of affection. But the thing was, he _did_ fall into a return display off affection - after the moment it took him to relax, of course - and nothing could have made her happier. She didn't think he could've been happier either. After all, this was what he had wanted from the very beginning, wasn't it? The two of them were so absorbed in one another, they didn't notice anything else until after the camera flashed.

Marcus dropped his grip on her and spun around to face a grinning Rita Skeeter and a Quick-Quotes Quill that had just burst into a flurry of writing. Ginny could almost see the color drain from her own face when the camera boy snapped another shot.

"Don't feel anything more than that for Flint, hm? I'm inclined not to believe either of you after that nice snog!"

She laughed hysterically, and it came out sounding quite like a cackle. While Ginny only went paler, Flint's cheeks flushed a dark red. He grabbed the gray-haired woman forcefully by her arm and jabbed his index finger into her collarbone.

"Don't you publish that, Skeeter! You'll regret it, I swear you will!"

"Is that a threat, my dear boy?" She laughed again. "This is front page material! You expect me not to want to share the tale of two you star-crossed lovers with the world? My readers will eat it up!"

He took several quick, ragged breaths and gave Rita such a venomous glare Ginny was sure he would strangle the woman on the spot. Seriously afraid he would, she grabbed his arm and sharply mouthed the word "Don't." Marcus immediately let go of the reporter, who brushed herself off and giggled.

"You two are simply _adorable,_ do you realize that? Don't let the troll in you get to your head, Mr. Flint. Dear little Ginny won't always be there to keep your temper in check, you know."

The woman rapped him lightly on the chest with her quill, then spun sharply on her heel and vanished. Apparated off to, Ginny assumed, wherever the Daily Prophet was printed. Flint just stood there, breathing heavily and staring at where Rita had been only moments before. Ginny grabbed his arm with her other hand as well.

"Marcus?"

The man flinched a little and sighed.

"Loo's like I go' you in a bloody lo' o' trouble, eh? Sorry 'bout tha'. A press conference pro'lly wa'n't the smartes' place to try that," he chuckled. Nerves were starting to get the best of the usually collected man, and his speech suffered from it. Ginny was vaguely reminded of how Neville used to talk whenever he was around her or Luna, and so she wasn't fooled for a second by the lighthearted words. There was a hurt, furious look in his eyes that made her throat knot up and her heart pound. Whatever had happened between them had been too fast for her to get, but what she and him had just done was starting to sink in now. He'd made the first move, but she was more than equally to blame. She never had been very controlled. The girl almost giggled, remembering how her furious pace through boyfriends had shoved such a stick up Ron's ass in her fifth year.

"It'll be okay," Ginny mumbled with a crooked smile. She let her gaze drop to their feet.

The girl patted him lightly on his back, too absorbed in marveling at how many sizes larger his shoes were than hers to hear his responding grunt. Flint grabbed her shoulder that was closest to him and started rubbing his thumb nervously in circles. She felt a little like crooning under his touch; why hadn't she thought he would feel so good before? The idea had obviously crossed his mind, even if it wasn't in there at the moment. Ginny could tell he was much more concerned with their inevitable news story than with her at the moment.

"Really, Marcus, it'll be fine."

"Yeah. Ok, yeah, it'll be fine. Everyone reads the Prophet, but does anyone actually believe a word of it? It's all lies. Besides, there has to be bigger news somewhere. I doubt we'll even make the front page of the sporting section, anyway."

Ginny smiled and put her hand over his on her shoulder. Once that photo hit the public, they were pretty much stuck together (if only for _her_ reputation's sake), but she didn't mind the idea nearly as much as she would have an hour previously. She _wanted _this. She would make sure Marcus was stuck with her whether Rita told anyone or not. Ginny smiled at him, and even though he was looking in the opposite direction, she decided he wanted it too. Whatever happened next, it would be fine.


	4. Disgusting

Things were definitely not fine.

Flint stared quietly at the newspaper folded on the table in front of him. His eyes were glazed over and he wasn't thinking about anything; just sitting there like a zombie and rubbing the increasingly sore ring around his eye. Honestly, he thought the picture splayed out over the front page of the Prophet caught his good side pretty well, but the Falcons had been less than pleased. He'd ditched out of practice - the first time in years - after both bludgers cuffed him upside the head for the second time. Those bloody beaters could only pass it off as grogginess for so long. He'd realized he wasn't wanted there from all the poundings, so he'd left. Simple as that.

"Flint and Weasley: Keeping Friends Close and Enemies a LOT Closer." The title had almost made him bust out laughing when he read it. Wasn't it just like Skeeter to use some bloody saying? Fuck, it was hilarious. The article, though, was much worse. He started feeling sick to his stomach about halfway through, once it sunk in just how many people would spend that morning reading about, just as he had predicted, "forbidden Quidditch love." Bloody hell. Fake quotes, bended facts, a really incriminating photo. It would've put any emotionally-sane person into hysterics. Flint, however, had spent eight years facing the discrimination that came from being mean, ugly, stupid, and a Slytherin. That was four levels of hate right there, and he was fine with them. Tough skin made it a lot easier for the man to face, as long as he didn't think too much. But hat had never been one of his strong points anyway.

He heard the faint 'pop' of an Apparition behind him, but didn't react. If one of his teammates had actually followed him to his damn _apartment_ to beat up on him some more, that man deserved to get some punches in. If it was anyone else... he wasn't really in the mood to care.

Someone grabbed the chair pushed up to the table next to his and pulled it back behind him. Looked like a girl's arm, he decided, a bit too out-of-it to make any connection. Ginny draped her arms over his shoulders - around his neck - and clasped her hands together over his chest. She placed her chin on the back of his chair, since she couldn't reach up to his shoulder leaning like she was. Flint drew in a sharp breath, being brought partially back to reality by the unexpected contact. He wondered for a second how she would react if he threw her off, but pushed the idea out of his mind. What he'd done was stupid, and he regretted it a lot just then. If Weasley wanted some company, he didn't have any right to deny it after he'd been so open the day before. No matter how much he just wanted to be alone.

"Hey," she mumbled into the back of his shoulder.

"Hey," was his only response.

They sat in silence like that for a long time before Ginny pulled her arms back and sat up.

"What happened to your face?"

"Bollard."

She reached up to rub the purplish ring around his eye and he winced, though more from the idea of someone touching him like that than the pain it caused. She didn't realize, though.

"I didn't- Sorry!"

Flint just shook his head a little to indicate he'd heard her. His eyes hadn't pulled away from the half-empty coffee mug on the table in the entire time Ginny'd been coddling him. In fact, they hadn't come away from the mug in over an hour. Ginny rubbed his back a little, and the man winced again. He would've just stormed off if he hadn't felt so guilty for what that would do to her. She would feel as much worse as he would feel better, and since it didn't seem likely he was going to feel fine any time in the near future, he let her rub over him however she wanted.

"Marcus, are you okay?" He almost growled at the sound of someone else saying his first name, but caught himself. "Be nice" ran through his head a few times.

"I mean, I know it was bad, but my team's been really supportive. I'm sure I'll get a howler from my brother Ron, but he's stupid. I'll be fine. Are _you_ okay?"

She would be fine, she'd said so herself. Flint felt like a weight, however small, had been lifted off his chest. He stood up and took a few steps away from the startled girl.

"Go away now, alright?"

"What?"

"Go away. I made a mistake, I'm sorry, there's your apology. Now I want to be alone. Go away."

Ginny stared at him in disbelief. _What_?

"You want me to-"

"Leave. Yes."

What didn't she get? He would feel better if he was alone, and she had other people to go to who would be much more suited to dealing with this however the hell normal people dealt with this sort of stuff. It wasn't that tough of a concept. Ginny stood up abruptly. She took a sharp breath with words on the tip of her tongue, but he could tell she was reluctant to start screaming and break the quiet. Neither of them had been talking above a mumble, and she almost couldn't bring herself to end it. A weird habit of humans.

"What... What the hell, Flint?"

Not a yell.

"After all that, you just want me to leave? Just like that? After-"

"After what?" He snorted, finding how much she wanted a reason to stay amusing. "I've know you for, what, three days? That's an awful lot of history, innit?"

He wasn't turned around, but he could feel the anger on Ginny's face boring into his back. She took a step forward and opened her mouth to say something, but instead gave him a hard kick to the calf and Apparated before he could retaliate.

"Bloody little...!"

Flint rubbed his sore leg. Hadn't he been hit enough for one day? For Merlin's sake, he wasn't a bloody punching bag!

No, he'd deserved that. The man sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. What had been wrong with him the other day? He knew perfectly well he didn't want a girlfriend, especially not one who happened to be the Holyhead Harpies' star chaser. What had he been thinking? After a few moments of turmoil, Flint settled his mind on some kind of red-hair fetish. That explained it, right? He snorted.

"This is pathetic," he grumbled, then took a deep swig of coffee. His face twisted up in disgust. It was cold and tasted like spit, and he to resist the urge to spray it all over his table. Just how long had he been sitting there before Ginny came over? Flint bit his lip. How long would he just sit there now that she was gone? How long would he just sit there the next time he didn't feel right? And the time after that? How long would he just... sit... there...? He started to shiver a little, but caught himself and took a deep breath. What the hell was going on with him lately?

"Red-hair fetish my bloody arse," Flint chuckled under his breath. He pointed his wand at the brown-stained mug and it flew to the sink, where a dirty sponge started to scrub it out. He looked around the small room with some disappointment. Clothes were hanging over all of his chairs and layed unfolded on the floor, filthy dishes sat unwashed in the sink, his fridge was cracked open and something that looked like milk dripped out in a puddle on the floor. It was disgusting now that he got a real look at the apartment. How long had he been living like this? Flint shivered again, but didn't see any point in stopping himself as he was completely alone. How long would he go on living like this? He grunted and flicked his wand again, setting the sponge on every surface it could reach. Disgusting.

He grabbed a chair and plopped down in it, watching bubbles fly around his kitchen, still feeling a little detached. He usually liked the feeling, it helped him cope and keep a cool exterior. And that made it easier for him to be snarky, instead of violent. Words could hurt just as much as a fist, and he liked using that to his advantage. And when he egged his oppoenent on enough, he knew he could still beat the shit out of anyone he would've been bad-mouthing to start with. But now, the absentness felt more like a hindrance than a lifeline. He couldn't quite think straight. If Flint didn't know better, he would've thought he'd had one firewhisky too many. The man spat something under his breath stood up sharply, placed both of his hands on his face, and stretched, yawning loudly. Another flick of the wand made the sponge splash some cold water on his face, which cleared up his thoughts significantly more than he thought it would.

"What the hell am I supposed to say to this?" he laughed, kicking his feet up on the table.

"Maybe... _yes_?" He laughed again at how stupid his impression of himself had just sounded. For a brief second, he expected to hear someone else laugh with him. Flint frowned at the silence that obviously followed and walked over to the sink, splashing icy water on his face himself. He didn't really want to be alone, did he? No. He really didn't want to be alone. The man almost groaned when he realized he had no idea where anyone he knew lived.

Ginny had probably asked one of his teammates. Mad as they were at him, he knew they all liked her. Maybe not in a conventional sense, but certainly enough that they would tell her his location. But who was he supposed to ask?

Still, he really, really didn't want to be alone. At this rate, he'd be hearing voices or hallucinating or something in no time. He closed his eyes and flipped through the list of places he could possibly go. Quidditch field? Practice would still be on. His parents' house? No, that was stupid. They didn't want him and no newspaper article was about to change that. He didn't want to be near them anyway. Hogwarts? No one he knew still went there, and he was fairly certain he remembered something about apparating there being impossible.  
Flint scratched his neck absently. Hogsmeade? That could work. He'd get a drink at the Three Broomsticks, there were always people there. Yeah, that would work. Feeling quite proud of himself, the man gave a quick grin before he spun sharply on his heel and 'popped' into oblivion.

---

**A/N:** Flint's place is nasty. Reminds me of my uncle. :P Anyways, I really tried to make this more in character. Not sure how I did since I've only read over this once so far, but I tried. Got some more coming, since I decided to finish this shit. If even if no one reads it... x3


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